He was bald with a scattering of grey facial hair covering his many wrinkles. He must have been sixty-five or seventy years of age or older. He was a sitting collection of bones clothed in flesh with an oblong head and two huge eyeballs peering down at you from their sockets. Whatever illness that took him must have been chipping at him bit by bit for years. I’d even imagined that he knew who each person was and what time each of us walked by.
Like a stone sculpture, he would sit still and follow everything and every passerby on our street with his eyes. The man who died would sit on the verandah of his small, unfenced and unpainted bungalow, unmoved.
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